I've seen a lazy cow eating its last grass of happiness, a huge hand built brick house that has kept its history in the attic, a silky white bowl full of thrown leftovers which will poison the hungry and lost chicken on its journey to Heaven and one lonesome cloud carrying people's enemy so labelled rain. I can hear the chained dog growling of anger which helps him become fearless and adventurous in his dreams, the river digesting its love and purines, and a slow creek of the wood painted door opening its eyes to the sound of light. I can smell the cow's and the daisy's mixture of smell, which conflicts every now and then to win the crown of air, and the mud that once brought new life to the garden. I can feel the rough and bumpy texture of brick and taste the weather's hotness. This is home. This is my home.